


everything comes back to you

by ninepointeight



Category: Men's Basketball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Banter, Basketball, Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Jokes, Dirty Talk, Everyone Is Gay, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Knotting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Matchmaking, Possessive Behavior, Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-Lubrication, Sexual Tension, Shotgunning, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninepointeight/pseuds/ninepointeight
Summary: “Come on, were you even trying?” Lebron says when they land.Kyrie makes a face at him, and tries not to give away how hard he’s breathing. “You’ve got seven inches on me, man.”Lebron bends down to retrieve the ball, and mutters under his breath, “I wish I had seven inchesinyou.”
Relationships: Kyrie Irving/LeBron James, Stephen Curry/Klay Thompson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 102





	everything comes back to you

**Author's Note:**

> yeah dont take it too seriously

Kyrie is on his eleventh straight clip of Shaqtin’ a Fool when his phone lights up with a notification.

He lets it sit for a couple minutes and finishes laughing at Javale McGee first, and by the time he cares to check, he discovers that he has over one hundred new messages. Almost all of them are from the OBA group chat– the Omega Basketball Association. Kyrie still thinks that the name could use some work, but it is what it is.

He scrolls up to the original message that had kickstarted the whole onslaught of reactions. It’s from Trae, with a YouTube link and the accompanying comment: “this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life 💀💀💀”.

Kyrie frowns down at his phone, and clicks on the link with mild trepidation. It takes a few seconds for the page to load fully, but one look at the video’s title and Kyrie is already groaning audibly.

 _“Ask the NBA: Who is the most attractive omega in the NBA?”_ Posted by fucking BuzzFeed two hours ago. It’s only some combination of vague disbelief and morbid curiosity that inspires Kyrie not to throw his phone out the window and keep watching.

The interviewees are, of course, a bunch of alphas. The first one up is Lebron, naturally, to get the views. A little bit of Kyrie dies inside as he watches Lebron first chuckle awkwardly at the question, and then seem to consider it seriously.

“The most attractive omega,” Lebron says after a moment. “I’d have to say it’s Kyrie.”

Kyrie stares at his phone in mild shock. What the f– “Steph, definitely,” the screen changes and Klay is saying dreamily.

“Chris Paul,” Dwight Howard nods slowly.

Kawhi’s eyes flit around like he’s searching for a trap, before he says carefully, “Danny…?”

Andre doesn’t even hesitate: “it’s Steph.”

“Kyrie, hands down.” KD says into the camera. Draymond, next to him, nods sagely. “Yeah, Kyrie.”

JR appears to be deep in thought. “Steph Curry, man,” he states.

Next is Luka, who looks troubled; “that’s a tough question,” he replies, “maybe…Trae? It’s hard to pick.”

Jimmy clears his throat, “Kyrie.”

“Listen,” James Harden tells the cameraman, “personally, I find Chris Paul extremely attractive.” God, way to make it weird, Kyrie thinks.

Jayson scratches the back of his head, slightly abashed. “I don’t really want to say this because he’s like my big brother, but honestly…” he blushes, and finishes in a small voice: “Kyrie.” Okay, Kyrie will let that one go. It was actually kind of sweet.

Giannis blinks thoughtfully onscreen. “I can’t say I’ve thought about that before,” he says, “but off the top of my head, probably Steph Curry.”

The video continues like that for three more excruciating minutes. To Kyrie’s completely and utter lack of surprise, there is a tallied ‘scoreboard’ at the end showing the ranking of which omegas got the most mentions. Stephen is first with Kyrie trailing him by three, third being Chris with nine less than Kyrie. Kyrie looks at his phone, conflicted. Is he supposed to feel objectified right now or flattered in some really fucked up way?

He switches his screen back to the group chat which is, understandably, still teeming with outrage. “I feel so creeped out rn 😵” Kyrie sends, and immediately receives a barrage of concurrences. Three seconds later, Kyrie’s phone rings, and a shitty selfie that Stephen had taken on his phone pops up to indicate the caller.

“What’s up, hot stuff,” Kyrie greets, picking up.

“Right back at you,” Stephen says dryly. “But hey– tell me, how does it feel to come in second to me for the third time?”

Kyrie clicks his tongue. “Feels fine,” he says, “because I’m not desperate for approval from alphas.”

Stephen makes a noise at the back of his throat. “Alright, that’s valid,” he concedes, and then sighs after a moment.

“I hate this,” he says glumly. “I really thought we’d come far enough that this kind of shit wouldn’t fly anymore.”

“Gotta love the media,” Kyrie replies, flopping onto his back on his bed. “Like, hey, congrats on being the most fuckable player in the league!”

Stephen laughs out loud at that. “You know what, those alphas are at fault, too,” he says. “Why would they even respond to a dumbass question like that?”

“True,” Kyrie agrees, “I thought…some of those guys were better than that.”

Stephen snorts, “and some of those answers, too. Like, yeah, we really needed the clarification that Lebron’s had a huge boner for you for the past four years, as if it wasn’t obvious enough.”

That startles a laugh out of Kyrie. “Sure,” he replies amicably, “or confirmation that Klay does in fact manifest heart eyes whenever he so much as thinks about you?”

“Point,” Stephen acknowledges after a second of silence. “Still,” he sighs again, “I wish we could…mess with them back, somehow.”

“Mess with them?” Kyrie raises his eyebrows. Now that’s an idea.

“I know it’s dumb, but–”

“We should do it.” Kyrie cuts in.

There’s a bit of rustling on the other side of the line, like Stephen is sitting up. “Really?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Kyrie replies, “why not?”

“Why not,” Stephen repeats slowly. “You’re right. There’s no harm in it anyway.” He pauses, “right?”

“Right,” Kyrie says. He sits up as well, mind already going in a million and one different directions. “The only question is, how are we going to do this?”

*

All-Star Week is the perfect set-up for their plan.

It’s weird to see all the guys who had appeared in the video, especially the ones who mentioned him specifically, but Kyrie just greets everyone like normal and none of them bring it up either.

To be honest, after the initial pseudo-adrenaline rush, Kyrie is starting to feel kind of doubtful about their little ‘revenge’ scheme. “Are you sure this is gonna work,” he whispers to Stephen at the opening ceremony, as the announcer emphatically introduces Carmelo Anthony.

“Just trust the process, man,” Stephen whispers back. Kyrie resists the urge to roll his eyes at the ambiguous answer.

Their first opportunity comes in the middle of the annual “friendly” scrimmage they have the day before the All-Star game, though it’s always funny to see how hypercompetitive the alphas get. Kyrie and Stephen are playing point guard for opposing teams like always when someone calls for a ten-minute water break. Okay, Kyrie huffs out a breath, this is what they’ve been waiting for; here he goes.

He pulls off his jersey so he’s just left in his white undershirt, and makes his way over to the bench where most of the guys are gathered around chatting. Kyrie makes a beeline for where Stephen is sitting on one of the chairs drinking water.

“Hey,” he says quietly when he’s near enough.

Stephen beams and gestures for Kyrie to bend down so he can whisper something in his ear. “You ready?” Stephen asks, breath hot against the side of Kyrie’s face.

“Yeah,” Kyrie whispers back. Stephen grabs his wrist, “I’m pretty sure Paul George is staring at your ass right now,” Stephen says, and Kyrie giggles like he just said something hilarious. Which, Kyrie supposes, he did. Is this whole situation even real?

They ‘flirt’ for a few more moments. Kyrie puts a hand on Stephen’s chest playfully, and Stephen uses his grip on Kyrie’s wrist to pull him forward forcefully so that Kyrie falls on top of him. After adjusting their position in an extraordinarily suggestive manner, Kyrie ends up sitting in Stephen’s lap with Stephen’s arms wrapped around his waist.

They had debated over who got to be in which position on the phone. Stephen argued that Kyrie should sit on him because he’s taller, but that’s honestly ridiculous, he’s only got _one_ inch on Kyrie. Still, he let Stephen have it, because he is a nice guy.

This isn’t so bad though, Kyrie decides, as Stephen murmurs in his ear, “God, look at them, they’re fucking drooling.” Kyrie plays the part, biting his lip shyly and blushing like Stephen just said something particularly lewd.

Stephen’s right; the buzz of conversation in the area has virtually come to a halt as everyone watches them curiously. Trae, the only other omega in the vicinity, looks like he is on the verge of bursting into uncontrollable laughter. Kyrie winks at him, and Trae toasts them back with his water bottle.

Then they start laying it on thick. Kyrie fully leans back into Stephen’s embrace, and makes sure his legs spread slightly wider as he moves. He puts one hand over where Stephen’s arms are braced around his waist, and turns to speak to the side of Stephen’s head.

“Did you see Klay’s face?” Kyrie laughs, “he looks like he wants turn me into a hamburger patty.”

“Yeah?” Stephen replies, “well, I’m really not feeling the love from Love either, man.”

Kyrie actually balks at that. “Kevin? Are you serious?”

He can sense that Stephen wants to roll his eyes. “Yeah,” Stephen says, “looks like he’d give anything to be me right now.” Stephen doesn’t wait for Kyrie to reply before splaying out one hand against Kyrie’s waist.

Kyrie can’t help but shiver at the sensation, even though he had known very well it was coming. And then– Stephen starts to grope him, basically. Well, does it count as groping if it’s pre-orchestrated, consent was given, and boundaries were fully established beforehand? Probably not. The point is, Stephen runs his hands over Kyrie’s torso pretty liberally, even pulling Kyrie’s undershirt out of the waistband of his basketball shorts to show a sliver of skin.

“Jesus,” Stephen says hoarsely into his ear, “you should see how these guys are looking at you,” he pauses. “You know, I kind of get it,” he slides his hand unhurriedly along Kyrie’s side, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric, “such a tiny fucking waist.”

This is definitely unplanned. Kyrie blinks at the unexpected curl of heat in his stomach, and he shifts in Stephen’s lap. “Steph,” he says under his breath, “if you get a fucking boner right now–”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Stephen says quickly. “What do you take me for? Just stop, ah, rubbing against me.”

Kyrie immediately stops moving. He lets Stephen bury his face in his neck, and finally chances to look up– only to squarely meet Lebron’s eyes.

He freezes when he sees Lebron’s expression. Lebron looks _hungry_. There’s no other word to describe it. He’s staring at Kyrie like he wants to eat him whole, and his gaze darkens when Kyrie tries to smile disarmingly at him. Kyrie has to avert his eyes, trying to will the heat rising on his face away.

Three feet away from Lebron is Draymond, who is quite literally drooling. Kyrie grins at that and taps the side of his chin. Draymond looks startled at the sudden attention, then quickly wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand, looking sheepish.

Kyrie’s eyes land on Klay, who stands nearby with his arms crossed and stance defensive. It appears that he can’t decide if he’s more turned on or angry as he stares at them, and Kyrie makes sure to catch his eye before dropping him a wink like the asshole he very much is. Klay’s eyes widen, and then he begins to look increasingly conflicted like he doesn’t know whether he wants to fuck Kyrie or murder him.

The next person Kyrie makes eye contact with is Luka. The kid, to his credit, reacts quickly, and is pretty damn smooth, too. He smiles broadly at Kyrie and tilts his head to one side, miming a phone with one hand, mouthing, “call me?”

Kyrie breaks out into giggles at how absurd that is, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Luka looks incredibly satisfied with himself when Kyrie mouths back exaggeratedly, “I’ll call you.”

A low growl suddenly cuts through the air.

It’s the imposing, dominant growl of an alpha who knows he’s the biggest and strongest one in the room. Something deep inside of Kyrie straightens up. Every head swivels to look at Lebron, and even Stephen’s hands stop moving.

Lebron isn’t looking at Kyrie anymore, but he sweeps his eyes over all the alphas in the vicinity, and even the betas for good measure. He and Luka get caught up in an intense staring match, with the puffed-out chests and hypermasculine posturing and everything. Lebron’s face is stony, and Kyrie has never seen him look quite so intimidating before.

After several long, tense moments, Luka looks away first. Lebron just nods, calm and collected as ever. Even Kyrie can hear the message there loud and clear.

Then Lebron looks back at him, eyes dark and intent. Kyrie swallows heavily and stares right back, even though his inner omega is screaming at him to lower his eyes in submission. Times like these are when he really hates his orientation.

When they still played together, Lebron always liked to joke that Kyrie had the body of an omega but the heart of an alpha. So Kyrie doesn’t look away no matter how much his biology wants him to. The air and people surrounding them seem to be frozen, waiting for something to snap the tension. Stephen’s arms tighten marginally around his waist, and Kyrie licks his lips nervously.

That, apparently, breaks Lebron out of whatever ultra-zen alpha state of mind he had previously been in. One side of his mouth lifts in an equal parts fond and wry smile. “Stubborn as always, Kyrie,” he says.

Kyrie blinks dumbly at him, surprised. That only serves to make Lebron even more amused, chuckling to himself as he turns to head towards the court. “Come on, guys,” he says, voice booming, “let’s get back to the game.”

There’s a momentary pause as everybody finds their bearings. Then, one by one, they follow after Lebron, going back to discussing plays after throwing Kyrie and Stephen one last lingering glance. It’s been years, but Kyrie will never cease to be amazed by Lebron’s raw authority.

And then Kyrie and Stephen find themselves all alone on the bench. There’s a long, mutual silence between them as they try to process what just happened.

Kyrie is the one to break it after a few moments. “Hey, Steph?”

Stephen shifts behind him. “Yeah?”

Kyrie turns to face him. “Does this mean I just successfully stared Lebron down?” He asks seriously.

Stephen’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. He lifts one arm slowly– and flicks Kyrie on the forehead. “It means,” he replies, “you’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.”

Kyrie clutches his forehead with one hand. “Ow,” he complains, but he can’t help but turn his head to watch Lebron as he walks onto the court.

Kyrie sighs. Yeah, so maybe he does.

*

After much deliberation, Kyrie and Stephen decide to carry on with their strategy.

Somebody suggests that they go to a club that night, probably Draymond, and everybody agrees, eager to blow off some steam. The bouncer balks at them when they arrive, and they get led to a private room near the back of the club. Ah, the perks of being an NBA star.

The atmosphere is pretty relaxed, everyone sitting back with a drink or two and chatting. Lebron is the life of the party as always, and Kyrie laughs along at his antics, though he looks resolutely away whenever he feels Lebron’s burning gaze on the side of his face.

It’s an hour into the night, and Kyrie feels a bit bad for having to disturb the peace, but well. It’ll be hilarious.

He snags a joint from the open pack lying on the table. There are a couple other guys smoking, and Melo already looks stoned out of his mind. Kyrie lets the joint hang loosely from his lips as he searches for something to light it with.

“Want a light?” Stephen asks, popping out of nowhere with a lighter in hand.

Kyrie makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture, and Stephen leans in close to cup a hand around his chin. They both watch as the lighter flickers to life, and the end of the joint glows orange. “Thanks,” Kyrie murmurs.

He closes his eyes as he inhales, rolling the smoke around in his mouth for a moment before breathing it back out lazily. He knows how he must look like this, lashes dark against his cheeks and white smoke rolling out like molasses between his lips. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip languidly like an afterthought.

He opens his eyes as he takes another drag, making sure to hollow his cheeks out just a little. Predictably, nearly every alpha in the room is watching him with interest. Kyrie resists the urge to smirk at them, and lets the smoke escape his mouth as he speaks. “Steph, you want a hit?”

Stephen is looking at him, amused. “Don’t mind if I do,” he says, holding out a hand for Kyrie to pass the joint.

Instead of handing it to him, however, Kyrie leans toward him as he takes another long inhale, fisting his hand in Stephen’s collar to drag him forward. They meet in the middle, Kyrie’s other hand framing Stephen’s jaw and head tilted to one side. He exhales the smoke unhurriedly into Stephen’s mouth, which is an inch away from his own.

Stephen goes with it and breathes it in steadily, shifting the arm that had naturally fallen around Kyrie’s waist. His mouth is still slightly agape as Kyrie pulls away and Kyrie sticks the unlit end of the joint in, pushing Stephen’s jaw shut for him. When Kyrie reclines in his seat again, he has to force himself not to laugh out loud at the collective alpha thirst being radiated in the room.

Stephen draws another puff from the joint. “Should we get some more drinks?” He asks loudly, sprawled leisurely in his seat, “y’all are looking a little thirsty.”

Draymond is the first to snort. “You know, that’s pretty funny,” he says, and then actually picks up a glass from the table to take a long gulp.

Joel follows suit, though he fumbles with his glass and almost spills it all over himself. Klay mumbles something inaudible underneath his breath and crosses his legs awkwardly.

Kyrie watches all of this happen with raised eyebrows. There’s something incredibly satisfying about seeing these big, bad alphas falling all over themselves just from watching him and Stephen, what, smoke some weed? And they say omegas are ‘weak-willed’ and ‘sensitive’; Kyrie calls fucking bullshit.

He stands up and makes his way over to the door. He has it halfway open already when he looks back and realizes that every single person is staring at him. “Bathroom,” Kyrie says flatly, and lets the door shut behind him.

He ambles down the hallway idly. It’s been a long day, and Kyrie just needs a minute to himself to get some air. He splashes some water on his face at the sink, studying his reflection in the mirror for a few moments. His beard’s more closely-cropped than usual, and he takes a second to adjust the position of his baseball cap. The tank top he’s wearing reveals his shoulders and biceps, and not for the first time Kyrie wishes he were more ripped. Not that he’s scrawny; he’s pretty sure his arms are more toned than KD’s noodle limbs, at least, but compared to some of the other guys, like–

Someone clears their throat behind him loudly.

Kyrie jolts, spine straightening. He turns around stiffly. He has a good idea of what’s coming, but his stomach still does a weird swoop when he finds himself face to face with Lebron. He has to tilt his head back a little to meet Lebron’s eyes even with the bit of distance between them, which kind of pisses him off.

“Hey,” Kyrie breaks the stalemate first, albeit awkwardly. “What’s up.”

“Hey,” Lebron echoes. “Ky, can I…” he hesitates, “can I ask you a question?”

Kyrie bites back the ‘you just did’ and forces himself to smile. “Sure thing,” he says. Meanwhile, his mind is racing with an endless chain of questions on his own part. Why are they having this conversation in the bathroom? Did Lebron follow him here just to talk to him? Why does Lebron look so nervous– and why is Kyrie’s heart beating so quickly all of a sudden?

“Are you and Steph together?” Lebron blurts, the words coming out in a rush like they’re bursting out of his larynx.

Kyrie looks at him uncomprehendingly for a second, and tries to no avail to decipher the imploring look Lebron is giving him. It takes a few moments of gaping for his brain to catch up. “Steph and I? No! I– what?” He finally manages to splutter out, “why would you think that?”

Lebron somehow looks even more confused than Kyrie upon hearing the answer. “But,” he says, almost helplessly, “you guys have been all over each other lately.”

“We have,” Kyrie says, “but that doesn’t mean we’re together.”

Lebron seems to be at a loss for words. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah,” Kyrie replies dryly. He blows out a breath, “you can tell Klay that before he has an aneurysm or tries to murder me in my sleep.”

Lebron ducks his head as he chuckles, and Kyrie takes a moment to study him closely. After a few beats, Kyrie speaks up again. “Can I ask you a question back?”

Lebron looks at him curiously. “Go for it.”

“Why does it matter whether or not Steph and I are together?”

Lebron’s eyes widen marginally in surprise at Kyrie’s directness. He doesn’t look away, however, as the corners of his mouth pull up a little.

“Well,” he starts slowly, something unidentifiable in his eyes.

“ _I_ was sort of about to have an aneurysm. Or seriously considering murdering Steph in his sleep.”

Kyrie blinks at him.

What follows is several long, drawn-out seconds of silence in which neither of them speak, presumably to let the implications behind what Lebron just said really sink in. Kyrie kind of wants to pinch himself right now– is this seriously happening? In the men’s bathroom of some nightclub in Charlotte, North Carolina, no less?

Kyrie leans against the cool ceramic of the sink behind him. He only took two or three hits from the joint earlier, but combined with the effects of the shots he had thrown down at the start of the night, he’s feeling kind of buzzed. Kyrie is pretty sure that this is the only reason that he, listening to the thumping bass of the club outside, looks at Lebron and decides to say:

“Hey, do you want to go dance?”

*

Kyrie drags a bewildered Lebron out of the bathroom and into the main body of the club, only to discover that the others have already taken over the dance floor.

It isn’t hard to spot them considering they all tower over the other partygoers, even Stephen. Giannis may as well be a tree in the middle of the crowd. They have to shoulder their way through a horde of people dancing, but Kyrie makes Lebron go in front of him to clear the path.

When they get close enough, Kyrie is met with the bizarre sight of Stephen completely lost in his own world, swaying liberally and ‘dancing’ to the beat. Klay and Andre are both watching him, looking concerned but also too scared to try and interfere with what he’s doing.

Before Kyrie can say anything, Stephen catches sight of him in the middle of performing an elaborate-looking twirl. “Kyrieeeeeee,” Stephen immediately exclaims with a huge smile, opening his arms wide for a hug. And, because Kyrie isn’t a heartless asshole, he spreads his arms as well and lets Stephen drape himself over him.

“Jesus, you’re high as a kite,” Kyrie says next to Stephen’s ear.

Stephen either doesn’t hear him or just chooses to flat out ignore him, instead burying his face in Kyrie’s shoulder. “What are you doing here,” he mutters, “we all thought you and Lebron were,” he hiccups, “fucking in the bathroom.”

Kyrie recoils faintly just at the thought of that. “Steph,” he says, “I’m not having sex in a bathroom stall in some shady club.”

Stephen, to his credit, seems to actually consider this. “Okay, yeah,” he concedes, “you’re a real germaphobe.”

“Mm-hm,” Kyrie hums back and sways along to the beat, still supporting most of Stephen’s weight. He catches the eye of an amused-looking Lebron standing a few feet away, watching them, and mouths “sorry.” Lebron makes a ridiculous face back, and Kyrie can’t help but laugh as he looks away.

“You like him, right?” Stephen asks against the side of Kyrie’s neck, tone indecipherable.

Kyrie turns his head to look at him, startled. “I…” he hesitates, looking back to where Lebron has started jamming it out with Dwyane. “I don’t know.” He pauses, and then adds for no apparent reason, “we were going to dance.”

He can feel Stephen’s eyelashes fan against his neck when he blinks. “Well,” Stephen says, “why aren’t you guys dancing?”

Kyrie huffs a laugh to himself. “Because,” he replies, “you latched onto me and now I’m dancing with _you,_ dumbass.”

“Oh,” Stephen says, like he’s just now realizing where he is, who he’s with, and what he’s doing. “…do you want me to let go of you?” He offers somewhat reluctantly.

“Nah,” Kyrie leans his head against Stephen’s. “I live strictly by bros before hoes.”

Stephen breaks out into hysterical giggles at that. Kyrie waits patiently for him to recover, and Stephen manages to gasp out between snickers, “bros before hoes…does that make Lebron your hoe?” He dissolves into laughter again.

That is kind of funny, actually, in a really ridiculous, absurd way. Kyrie starts laughing, too, and they both can’t quite catch their breath for the next minute. “Steph,” Kyrie says when they finally stop, “you wanna head back to the hotel?”

Stephen pulls away to stand on his own. He sways on his feet dangerously for a moment, and nods sluggishly. “That’s a good idea,” he says.

“It sure is,” Kyrie replies. He looks around for someone not drunk off their ass and spots Klay, who seems reasonably sober. “Klay! Steph and I are gonna turn in early,” Kyrie shouts to be heard over the pounding music.

Klay nods and makes an okay gesture to signify that he heard Kyrie. Kyrie nods back and makes to leave, but decides to turn at the last second to address Klay, who is predictably still staring longingly at the back of Stephen’s head. “Hey man,” Kyrie shouts at him cheerfully, “don’t worry, I don’t want to fuck him!”

He doesn’t wait for Klay’s reaction before adjusting Stephen’s arm around his neck and starting towards the exit. Stephen smacks his lips audibly next to him, and tilts his head to ask, “can we get McDonald’s?”

Kyrie sighs. “Sure, Steph,” he says. He’s still in for a long night.

*

They only have to be at Spectrum Center by noon the next day, and everybody appropriately uses the morning to recover from hangovers of different degrees.

Stephen and Kyrie agree to meet the next morning at 10:30 in the lobby; neither of them are particularly hungover, but they go for a leisurely mid-morning jog followed by brunch, and generally take it easy.

They end up making it to the arena at about half past eleven. The locker room is pretty empty as they change into their respective uniforms, though judging by the number of compartments filled with equipment already, it’s because everybody else got here before them.

True to form, when they’ve tucked their jerseys in and finally head into the stadium, most of the guys are already warming up on the court. Kyrie’s eyes are immediately drawn, almost helplessly, to where Lebron is standing courtside, basketball tucked under one arm.

He’s speaking animatedly, other arm gesticulating wildly and broad shoulders shaking as he laughs at something. Kyrie’s gaze shifts to the person standing next to Lebron; who is he talking to?

Wait. Kyrie squints at the figure– there’s something familiar about the way whoever it is holds himself. And then the person turns his head a bit so that the side of his face is discernable, and oh, holy shit, that’s–

“Kobe!” Kyrie shouts, his vocal chords apparently reacting faster than his brain.

Kobe’s head swivels in his direction, expression startled, before he catches sight of Kyrie and breaks out into a huge grin. “Kyrie!” He shouts back in answer, opening his arms wide as Kyrie scampers across the court to close the distance between them.

Kyrie virtually barrels into Kobe, who takes the impact with an “oof” but doesn’t sway or stumble in the slightest. Kyrie wraps his arms around Kobe’s waist and buries his face in his chest, taking in how solid and warm he is. He can’t even remember when the last time he saw Kobe was, they just never seemed to be in the same place at the same time.

Kobe has one broad palm splayed against Kyrie’s lower back, the other hand on Kyrie’s head. “Hey, kid,” he says.

Kyrie pulls back marginally to look up at Kobe. He’s pretty sure there are literal stars jumping out of his eyes right now, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “What’re you doing here?”

“Believe it or not, I actually just happened to be in the area,” Kobe says, “and I figured, why not come take a look?”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Kyrie says giddily. Yeah, he’s twenty seven years-old, but whenever he sees Kobe he feels like the little kid watching the TV in awe all over again. His mind starts racing faster than his mouth can keep up. “Can you give me some pointers on how to do this dribble move later? I just can’t seem to get it right.” He babbles on, “oh, and I watched the ’09 finals highlights reel again a few days ago, there’s this _insane_ crossover you did in Game 3 that–”

Kobe interrupts him with a fond laugh. “Yes, of course I can,” he says indulgently, ruffling Kyrie’s hair. “You’re still such a kid, huh?”

“Pshht,” Kyrie leans away to scowl childishly up at him, “only to you,” he says.

Kobe chuckles again, patting the back of Kyrie’s head. “Don’t worry,” he replies teasingly, “it’s pretty cute.”

Before Kyrie can say anything, the pocket of Kobe’s sweatpants starts to vibrate. Kobe reaches in and fishes out his phone, glancing at the screen then looking down at Kyrie apologetically. “Sorry, gotta take this one,” he says, pulling back, and Kyrie reluctantly lets his arms fall away. Kobe sends him one more smile, “I’ll catch you later, kid.”

Kyrie resists the urge to pout as he watches Kobe walk away. A couple beats pass, and Kyrie is thinking that he should probably start his warm-up soon, when a deep voice speaks up beside him.

“So,” Lebron says, and, oh, Jesus Christ, Kyrie had almost forgotten he was even there. Lebron’s tone is hard to decipher, and when Kyrie turns to face him his expression equally unreadable. “You and Kobe are…close.”

Kyrie blinks at him. “Yeah! He was my biggest idol as a kid,” he exclaims. “I still can’t believe I’m actually friends with him.”

An odd look passes over Lebron’s face. “You guys looked like more than friends to me,” he says.

“Huh,” Kyrie replies. “Well, that’s true. I would definitely also describe him as being a mentor.”

Lebron looks slightly distraught at that. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, “it’s just...you guys were flirting just now, yeah?”

Kyrie looks at him, and leans forward a little, like that would somehow help him hear better. “ _Flirting?_ ” He repeats with mild incredulity, and briefly considers slapping himself. Every day of this week just seems to get more and more bizarre. “Kobe and I??”

Lebron stares back at him, just as doubtful. “The– ‘only to you’?” He mimics, “or ‘don’t worry, it’s pretty cute’???”

Kyrie’s jaw drops. “Lebron,” he says, genuinely troubled. “Why are you acting so jealous of everybody?”

It’s Lebron’s turn to be speechless. He looks indignant for a split second, before his shoulders slump downwards in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” he says dejectedly. He sighs, and rubs one hand over his face before continuing. “I just– I thought I’d gotten used to seeing these other alphas in the league chasing after you, I had to deal with it constantly in Cleveland, anyways. But lately– it’s been driving me _crazy_.” He’s looking at Kyrie earnestly, voice low but burning hot like a brand, “I wish you would sit in _my_ lap, or tell _me_ that you’re glad I’m here when you see me. I know I have no right to expect any of those things from you, but…I can’t help it.” He looks away with a small, self-deprecating smile, “you make me think so irrationally sometimes, Kyrie.”

Kyrie gawps at him for a moment. “I,” Kyrie starts and then cuts himself off, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He takes a couple steps towards where Lebron is standing until they’re mere inches apart, and Kyrie has to really tilt his chin upwards to maintain eye contact. “I didn’t know you wanted me to,” he finally says.

The corner of Lebron’s mouth pulls up at that. “Really?” He asks, “‘cause I thought I was always pretty obvious. I mean, it got to the point where I used to jerk off to you at least once every other d–”

“ _Okay!_ Stop right there,” Kyrie interrupts, face suddenly burning. “I got it.”

Lebron smiles beatifically at him in response. “Sorry, just trying to be transparent,” he says.

“Transparent,” Kyrie mutters, attempting to will the heat on his cheeks away. God, who just says shit like that? He’s pretty sure he can’t look Lebron in the eye for the next hour or so. “I’m gonna. Go warm up.” He says stiffly as he starts inching away.

Lebron sounds on the verge of laughter when he replies. “Okay, same,” he says. And then adds, clearly just to fuck with Kyrie, “wanna play one on one?”

Kyrie looks back up at Lebron sharply. And, well, yeah, he is reasonably not incredibly keen on the idea, but something about the way Lebron is looking at him like he knows Kyrie wants to say no is getting on his nerves.

Kyrie blows out a breath of air slowly, and shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “Sure,” he says, tilting his head and smiling at Lebron. “Why not?”

Lebron’s eyebrows lift briefly in surprise. “Yeah?” He says, “alright, then, let’s go.” He reaches back to grab the collar of his long-sleeved t-shirt, tugging it up and off over his head in one smooth motion so that he’s left in his jersey. Kyrie stares at the swell of muscle of Lebron’s bare arms, and doesn’t know whether he feels more envious of or attracted to him.

Lebron notices him looking and flexes. “Enjoying the view?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Kyrie quickly averts his eyes. “No,” he says petulantly, and before Lebron can make fun of him even more, “shut up.” He pulls off his own t-shirt a bit glumly, eyeing his biceps appraisingly. Okay, so he could use a little more time in the gym. Still, no matter how many protein shakes Kyrie forces himself to chug down, his omega biology makes it difficult for him to gain any more solid muscle mass on par with many of the alphas in the league.

Alphas like Lebron. The thought only serves to make Kyrie even more irritated, and he vows to destroy Lebron in the impending one on one.

It’s easier said than done, of course. They find an empty spot on the court, and Lebron is up first. It isn’t really an efficient one on one at the end of the day; Kyrie is all over Lebron during the drive to the basket, and he jumps as high as he can when Lebron goes for the dunk. But, Lebron being Lebron, doesn’t falter in the slightest and slams the ball down emphatically.

“Come on, were you even trying?” Lebron says when they land.

Kyrie makes a face at him, and tries not to give away how hard he’s breathing. “You’ve got seven inches on me, man.”

Lebron bends down to retrieve the ball, and mutters under his breath, “I wish I had seven inches _in_ you.”

This leaves Kyrie at a loss for words for probably the tenth time today. Lebron doesn’t seem to get the big deal, noting Kyrie’s flabbergasted expression with genuine concern. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

Kyrie gapes at him. “Lebron, not that this isn’t…hilarious, but I don’t understand why you’re suddenly being so…so…” he stops, struggling to find the right word.

“Crude?” Lebron suggests helpfully.

Kyrie moves his head in consideration. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, “sure, crude. That’s one word for it.”

“Well,” Lebron says, spinning the ball absentmindedly on one finger. “I mean, I’m kind of, just, putting it all out there. I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I…like you, or whatever other verb you want to use,” he explains, and then seems to think of something. “Of course, if it’s making you uncomfortable, just say the word and I’ll stop.” He adds hurriedly.

It’s so absurd that it almost makes sense. Almost. Kyrie nods slowly, “Huh,” he says. “What I’m really picking up from this,” he muses, “is that you don’t know how to flirt like a normal person. But that’s fine. It’s kind of funny seeing you not be perfect at something.”

Lebron looks at him with some mix of relieved and offended. “I know how to flirt,” he insists.

“Yeah, okay,” Kyrie replies skeptically. He holds his hand out for the ball, “can I get a turn now?”

“That’s not how one on one works,” Lebron replies.

“Well,” Kyrie says dryly, mockingly batting his eyelashes up at him, “aren’t you willing to bend the rules a little for me?”

Lebron huffs out a laugh at that, throwing him a look as if to say ‘alright, you little shit.’ He tosses Kyrie the basketball. “Let’s see it, then.”

Kyrie catches it in one hand, dribbling as they walk back out to the three point line. They take their positions, and Kyrie starts trying to back Lebron all the way up to the basket. He isn’t as strong as Lebron, but he certainly isn’t weak.

He manages to get about halfway to the basket, really putting his back into it and pushing, when he feels Lebron square his shoulders and finally start to actively press back. It takes another few moments of jostling in place for Kyrie to realize that not only are his efforts largely futile, but that he’s also in essence doing nothing except for grinding up against Lebron’s hip.

And Lebron, the pervert, is probably enjoying it. The thought brings the heat back to Kyrie’s face, and he quickly spins away into a fade, draining the mid-range one-legged jumper.

Just as he expected, when he lifts his head Lebron is already looking at him with a self-satisfied smile. “Why’d you stop?” He asks, “I was having a good time.”

Kyrie’s ears turn even hotter, and he glares at Lebron. “You’re evil,” he replies.

Lebron opens his mouth, probably to make some witty retort that will put Kyrie’s face up in flames all over again, but luckily an announcement over the speakers blares out into the gym before he can say anything. A tired-sounding man tells them over the PA system to report to the tech office on the fourth floor of the main building to get mic’d up for All-Access Weekend, and players immediately start trickling off the court obligingly.

Kyrie can’t pass up this perfect chance to escape this whole situation, which seems like it’s only going to get even more embarrassing on his end. “Okay,” he says, in the tone of somebody who is trying to leave a party early. “Well, I’d better go take care of that now.”

Lebron looks at him, amused, like he knows Kyrie is in effect running away. “Okay,” he replies, “I’ll see you later, then.”

“For sure,” Kyrie says, backing away. He lifts one arm in a two-finger salute, “catch you at the game.”

And then he turns around, and calmly walks away. If his pace is a bit brisker than usual, it’s only because he’s so eager to get a microphone attached to his person, and has nothing to do with how he can feel Lebron’s eyes watching him all the way until he’s out of the gym.

*

The All-Star game goes well, all things considered.

In Kyrie’s first year being selected as an All-Star, he had excitedly and naively played his heart out like it was a real game. He’s since then learned not to take these things too seriously. Team Lebron still wins though, of course, and he throws a sweet alley-oop to Lebron in the third quarter that he’s sure will make the highlight reels.

Instead of a wild afterparty, this year they agree to gather and just chill in whoever has the largest hotel room. That is, naturally, Lebron, who is staying in what may as well be the presidential suite.

“Seriously, why do you always get the best things?” Kyrie complains jokingly as he glances around the excessively spacious room.

Lebron coughs. “That’s not true,” he says, “I haven’t gotten you yet.”

Kyrie whirls around to narrow his eyes at Lebron, who looks back with an earnest expression. “Okay,” Kyrie says slowly following a few moments of deliberation. “That was pretty smooth.”

Lebron beams, and does a little fist pump that is oddly endearing. “See,” he says, “I told you. I’m smooth as butter, baby.”

Kyrie smiles at him indulgingly. “You sure are,” he agrees.

“Hey! Guys, can you please stop flirting by the door and come play Smash?” Stephen yells at them, effectively shattering the atmosphere.

Kyrie stiffens, then heaves a sigh. “Coming,” he calls back to Stephen. He exchanges a dry look with Lebron, and they make their way to the living room area where the huge flat-screen TV is. Somebody has already set up the gaming system, and Super Smash Bros is loaded on the screen.

Russell lifts a controller at Kyrie in a silent question, and Kyrie shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’ll sit this round out.”

KD flings a controller at Lebron. “Let’s go, man, I know you dominate with Peach,” he says.

Lebron catches the controller with his right hand, plopping down in the last available spot on the couch. Kyrie eyes dart around the living room, but every surface of the place appears to be occupied by someone. Kevin is lying on his stomach on the carpet, taking up entirely too much space for one person, but Kyrie doesn’t have the energy or heart to tell him to move.

His eyes move back to the couch. He watches Lebron queue up on his controller, and after a second spent mulling it over, he speaks up.

“Lebron,” he says, “can you move your hands really quick?”

Lebron looks up at him, confused, and spreads his arms out on either side. “Like this?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Kyrie replies, “that’s perfect.” And then he steps forward, turns around, and takes a seat in Lebron’s lap. He gets comfortable and reclines until his back is pressing warmly against Lebron’s chest.

Lebron seems to be frozen for a long moment, before he wraps his arms around Kyrie’s waist almost disbelievingly. “There’s nowhere else to sit,” Kyrie explains, and Lebron makes a vague noise of assent, still sounding slightly dazed.

Kyrie catches Stephen’s eye, who is sitting at center stage in front of the TV, controller in hand. Stephen gives him a knowing look, and Kyrie sticks his tongue out childishly at him. The game comes to life on the screen and Stephen’s head snaps back in attention. Behind Kyrie, Lebron sits up a bit straighter, bracing his forearms on Kyrie’s thighs.

The final duel comes down to Stephen versus Lebron, which is when Kyrie really understands what people mean when they say that art imitates life. Lebron loses in the end, but only by a tiny margin. It’s, once again, strangely poetic. Kyrie laughs along with everybody as they watch Princess Peach fall sadly off the monitor.

“Psh,” Lebron says, “whatever, I was distracted.” His arms tighten around Kyrie’s waist, and he pulls him closer until the zero space between them is on the verge of becoming negative.

“Yeah, I bet you were,” Draymond snorts from the other end of the couch.

A couple guys snicker. The group, spearheaded by Stephen, cracks a few more jokes at Kyrie and Lebron’s expense, but overall they don’t get too much shit for their overly cozy position. Another Smash tournament quickly starts, and Lebron gives up his controller to Kyrie.

Kyrie briefly debates between Luigi and Jigglypuff, but ultimately selects Jigglypuff and waits for the screen to load. Behind him, Lebron pauses in his conversation with someone to lean forward and say into Kyrie’s ear, “Jigglypuff, really?”

“Just watch,” Kyrie replies confidently. Obviously, he wipes the floor with his opponents in the first few rounds– all those hours late in the night spent holed up in his room during high school weren’t for nothing.

The last ones standing turn out to be him and Jimmy. Kyrie narrows his eyes at the opposing Mewtwo flouncing around the monitor, leaning forward in concentration. It’s a grueling battle, both of them down to their last reserves when Kyrie delivers the final, fatal blow.

“Ha,” Kyrie whoops as his Jigglypuff ascends onscreen, “suck it, Butler.” Jimmy makes a face at him and Kyrie sits back, unconcerned. He turns his head and tells Lebron smugly, “see?”

Lebron hums, chest reverberating. “Impressive,” he murmurs, and when he exhales his breath fans over the side of Kyrie’s neck.

It makes Kyrie shiver on instinct. He squirms a little at the feeling, uncomfortable, before he hears Lebron breathe out heavily behind him.

“Ky,” Lebron says, “stop moving.”

Kyrie shifts one more time. “Why?”

“Because I’m gonna get hard if you keep doing that,” Lebron replies.

Kyrie immediately freezes.

“Oh,” he says lamely. “We…definitely don’t want that to happen.” He pauses, and reiterates awkwardly, “no.”

Lebron moves, adjusting his position behind him, but accidentally grinds up against Kyrie in the process of doing so. They both have different reactions to that; Lebron inhales sharply, breath hitching. Kyrie, on the other hand, can’t help but let out a small whine at the burning hot feeling of Lebron rubbing up against him. It’s quiet enough that nobody except for them can hear it, but it seems to add fuel to the fire as Lebron’s grip on his waist tightens.

“Christ,” Lebron all but growls into Kyrie’s ear. “You have no idea what I want to do to you right now.” He pulls Kyrie closer to him, until Kyrie can really feel the evidence of Lebron’s growing arousal. He has to bite his lip to hold back a sound that would definitely be inappropriate considering the number of people around them.

Kyrie takes a deep breath and tries to think rationally. “Lebron,” he says after a moment. “If I stand up right now will everyone see your massive hard-on.”

Lebron doesn’t say anything for a long second. “…maybe,” he eventually replies.

The corner of Kyrie’s mouth twitches; as unfortunate as this all is, it’s difficult not to find the situation at least somewhat funny. As carefully as he can, he scoots forward so that most of his weight is on top of Lebron’s legs instead. Lebron lets one arm fall around Kyrie’s waist, using the other to reach forward and pick up a drink from the table. He takes a long gulp of water, like that would somehow quench his metaphorical thirst.

There’s a moment of silence between them, and then Lebron sighs, apparently having lost some internal battle with himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding a bit miserable. “I usually have more self-control than this. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. It’s just– you’re straight out of one of my fantasies.”

Kyrie takes a second to process that, before turning his head to look at Lebron. “Wow,” he says, genuinely impressed. “You’re a real sweet talker, aren’t you?" He nods slowly, "now I see why the media loves you so much.”

The apparent non-sequitur seems to catch Lebron momentarily off guard. He tilts his head to one side, intrigued. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Kyrie replies, “you’ve got a way of saying things that just makes whatever it is sound…nice. Flattering, maybe. Even if it’s actually full of shit.”

Lebron considers this. “I mean,” he says thoughtfully, “it’s a necessary skill, so I’ll take that as a compliment. But more importantly,” he leans closer to Kyrie for the next part, “are you saying that you think I’m bullshitting you when I flirt with you?”

“Not exactly,” Kyrie sniffs, “but you have to admit. Your lines can be pretty over the top sometimes.”

Lebron looks offended. “Like what?”

“Like just now– ‘you’re straight out of one of my fantasies’?” Kyrie raises his eyebrows, “kind of laying it on thick, don’t you think?”

“But,” Lebron insists, “I literally _have_ dreamed about this. Having you be here like this– just without the room full of people. And I’m guessing the ending in my head is a lot happier than what’s actually going to happen.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Kyrie replies. “I don't think I'm _that_ easy.”

Lebron cracks a fond smile at that, “you wouldn’t be you if you were.” Kyrie can’t help but smile back.

It’s a nice moment. But also one that is once again like routine, promptly ruined by Stephen.

He materializes out of thin air and collapses onto the cushion next to them noisily, stretching one arm along the back of the couch. He tips his head back to eye them appraisingly.

“Hey,” Stephen says, “what’s poppin’?”

Kyrie’s eye twitches. What the hell is this, “are you drunk?”

Stephen ignores him. “So you guys are looking real comfortable,” he says, dragging the ‘e’ in ‘real’ out for several moments.

“Okay, who let Steph get to the minibar?” Kyrie asks loudly, and everyone looks away sheepishly, not meeting his eye.

Stephen barrels on, lost in his own world. “No, listen, like, I think you guys would make a great couple,” he leans forward conspiratorially, even though his volume is high enough that the majority of the room can likely hear him. “Actually– can you two just fuck already? Like, damn, it isn’t that hard. The sexual tension is driving me nuts.” He wipes some imaginary sweat off his forehead.

Both Kyrie and Lebron stare at him, speechless. Kyrie resists the urge to shift uncomfortably, if only for how much worse it would probably make…well, everything. Before either of them manage to say anything, Klay conveniently appears out of nowhere to gently coax Stephen up. “I’ll make sure he goes to sleep,” he tells Kyrie seriously.

“Okay,” Kyrie says, still sort of confused at what is going on. He watches Klay haul Stephen up with an arm around his waist, and they fumble their way to the door.

That seems to break the floodgates, as the other guys all start to get up and head for the door as well, a mix of ‘good night’s and ‘see you tomorrow’s sounding. Kyrie glances at the clock; it’s nearly one A.M., which he supposes is sort of late. Within five minutes, the place is cleared out other than Lebron, Kyrie, and a coffee table covered in empty beer cans.

Kyrie scoots off of Lebron awkwardly, settling down on the couch next to him. He considers taking this opportunity to make an exit, too, but some inexplicable, vague feeling that he just _shouldn’t_ causes him to stay put.

After a moment of silence, he decides to speak up. “Can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

Kyrie coughs. “It might be kind of, uh, abrasive.” But he has to admit; it’s something he’s been wondering about ever since he watched that stupid BuzzFeed video.

“Well,” Lebron blinks at him, “now I’m even more curious.”

“Okay,” Kyrie takes a breath, and then exhales slowly. Alright, here goes nothing.

“Why did you never make a move on me when we were in Cleveland?”

Lebron’s eyes bulge out slightly at the question. It would be funny if Kyrie weren’t holding his breath and waiting for an answer. “I,” Lebron hesitates. “Do you want me to answer that seriously?”

Kyrie doesn’t look away, “of course.”

Lebron’s gaze flits around for a moment, before it lands back on Kyrie. “Because,” he says carefully, “I know you, Ky.” He shakes his head, “you wouldn’t have said yes.

“I know how much the media pissed you off back then,” he continues. “ESPN would rather have a heated discussion over whether or not you were my omega than how you dropped 40 points the night before. I saw your frustration, and I understood where it was coming from. There’s no way your pride would have let you say yes to me– and I was fine with that. So I just wanted you from a distance.”

Kyrie listens to all of this closely. He opens his mouth when Lebron is done, but finds that he doesn’t quite know what to say. He searches Lebron’s face, who just looks back at him, expression open.

“I guess,” Kyrie says eventually, “I guess you’re right.” One corner of his mouth lifts in a wry smile, “God, 22 years-old,” he thinks back to those early years. “I definitely wasn’t ready. But…I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t want you, too. I just sort of hated myself for it back then.”

He pauses thoughtfully. Lebron stays silent, like he somehow knows Kyrie isn’t done speaking. “What I’m trying to get at is,” he says after a second, “I think– I think I’m ready, now.”

Kyrie looks at Lebron for a moment longer. “I’m ready now,” he repeats, more confident this time. “If you’ll have me, I mean.”

Lebron doesn’t move, or react in any way for several beats. The stillness drags on enough that Kyrie is considering speaking up again hesitantly, when he all of a sudden feels the world spinning around him.

After he overcomes his initial disorientation, he finds himself flat on his back, sinking lightly into the couch cushions. Lebron is braced above him, forearms on either side of his head, looking at him intently.

“If I’ll have you,” Lebron repeats, voice hoarse. Kyrie’s mouth feels painfully dry and he can’t help but lick his lips. He sees Lebron’s eyes drop to track the movement, and he has to bite back a heavy swallow. “Fuck, _of course_ I’ll have you,” Lebron breathes.

And then– he leans down, and kisses Kyrie.

Kyrie’s eyes widen and he is unresponsive for a second, before he realizes what is happening and starts to kiss back. Lebron bites at his bottom lip gently, and Kyrie takes the hint and opens his mouth.

The way Lebron kisses is every bit as dominating as anyone would expect. He is the one in charge, taking Kyrie’s chin between two fingers, and Kyrie brings his hands up to clutch at Lebron’s broad, broad shoulders. He usually hates the feeling of not being in control but for once he lets himself be pulled along, mind a pleasant buzz as Lebron leads the kiss.

They only pull away when air becomes an absolute necessity. Kyrie is the one to turn his head first, because apparently Lebron also has superior lung capacity amongst other above average attributes, and he pants heavily as he puts one hand on Lebron’s chest. Lebron, unbothered, just moves down and attaches his mouth to Kyrie’s neck. His lips are burning hot as he leaves a trail of kisses along Kyrie’s jaw, finally settling on a spot near his collarbone and sucking.

Kyrie can’t hold back the moan this time. He fists his hands in Lebron’s shirt, and decides that he needs Lebron to touch him, right now at this very second. He pushes lightly at Lebron’s chest until he pulls back a little reluctantly.

“What?” Lebron murmurs, looking put out at having his monster hickey session interrupted. Kyrie doesn’t say anything, just forcibly rearranges them so that their positions are reversed. Lebron lets Kyrie move him around, looking mildly confused and amused at the same time.

The confusion morphs into arousal when Kyrie straddles his lap and commands: “touch me.”

Lebron doesn’t hesitate as he uses one arm around Kyrie’s waist to pull him back down, other low on his hip. Their mouths meet again and it’s even more messy than the first time, saliva mixing into one between them. Kyrie can feel it when some liquid escapes the corner of his mouth, dripping down the side of his chin. Meanwhile, Lebron’s hands are busy roaming Kyrie’s body. One of them snakes its way under Kyrie’s t-shirt, and he has to shiver at the sensation of Lebron’s broad hand against his bare skin. He waits for Lebron to do something, but he just stops there, unmoving.

“Bron,” Kyrie breaks away to whine breathlessly. “Come on.”

Lebron’s mouth lifts to form a smirk. He slides his hand slowly up along Kyrie’s side, palm spread, until he reaches Kyrie’s chest. He flicks his thumb against Kyrie’s nipple, and Kyrie whimpers in response.

“Sensitive?” Lebron says lowly against Kyrie’s neck, breath coming out in hot puffs.

“Stop, ah, stop teasing me,” Kyrie pants.

“Yeah?” Lebron rasps, “you asked for it.” He retracts his hand and Kyrie is about to complain again, when Lebron swiftly shifts and stands up, lifting Kyrie like he weighs nothing. His hands dig into the backs of Kyrie’s thighs and Kyrie’s arms come up to wind around Lebron’s neck automatically.

“Woah,” Kyrie says as Lebron starts walking. He decides to just go with it and focuses his attention on pressing his mouth back to Lebron’s. They make out for a couple more seconds, tongues tangling, when Kyrie feels himself get gently set down on the soft surface of a bed. They kick off their shoes and socks at the same time.

Lebron pulls back, one knee between Kyrie’s legs, and looks down at him. “Is this okay?”

Kyrie stares back into his eyes, and breathes. “Yeah,” he replies.

Lebron quickly divests Kyrie of his shirt, and Kyrie helps pull it over his own head. The warm, rough pads of Lebron’s fingers immediately dance along his skin, but Kyrie pushes at Lebron’s chest petulantly.

“Not fair,” he says, plucking at Lebron’s sleeve. “You too.”

Lebron pauses his movements, and chuckles fondly down at him. He obligingly reaches back to tug off his shirt, tossing it god knows where behind him. Once that barrier is gone, Kyrie can’t stop himself from reaching out and touching Lebron’s abs, which are, of course, rock-solid.

“Jesus,” Kyrie can’t help but say, “are you even real?” His hands slide on their own accord to Lebron’s biceps. Lebron really is the perfect, epitomical alpha, in every way possible. Kyrie can still barely believe that out of everyone, Lebron would choose _him._

Lebron presses closer. “Look who’s talking,” he says gruffly, one palm flat against the curve of Kyrie’s waist and other hand travelling down to grab his ass. Kyrie gasps. “You have the perfect body, you know that? Such a small waist,” Lebron’s hand tightens. “And don’t even get me started on that ass. Fuck, it’s everything about you, Kyrie. The way you move, it’s like poetry. I could look at you all day.”

Kyrie’s face heats up instantaneously. He turns his head to the side to hide his embarrassed flush. “See,” he says, “this is what I meant by over the top.”

“Kyrie,” Lebron says, voice low and serious. Kyrie feels his chin being taken between a thumb and pointer finger, and Lebron forcibly turns his head back so that Kyrie has to look into his eyes. “I mean every word I say. You’re…you’re beautiful.”

Kyrie’s face gets impossibly hotter. His brain feels like it’s floating in sweet, sugary syrup, and he can’t quite think of anything except for Lebron’s hands, Lebron’s eyes, Lebron’s flawless fucking abs, just Lebron, Lebron, Lebron. Kyrie latches one hand on Lebron’s back, feeling the muscles there shift underneath his fingertips and reveling at how much power lies dormant in those coils and tendons. He pulls Lebron closer.

“Lebron,” Kyrie says, “fuck me.”

Lebron stares at him for a long moment, motionless. Kyrie waits patiently for his head to presumably stop imploding on itself, and when Lebron finally snaps back to the situation at hand, he does so with a low growl that’s all alpha. His eyes are dark and gaze hot and heavy as he looks at Kyrie, not even seeming to realize that his chest is rumbling possessively.

“You’re really something else, you know that?” He finally says, voice gravelly. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Kyrie’s face for even a second. “Drive me fucking crazy.”

The smell of arousal in the room sharpens overwhelmingly. When Lebron reaches out to him, his movements are jerky and spasmodic, like he’s trying incredibly hard to control his strength, and his touch is almost unnaturally feather-light.

Kyrie touches Lebron’s arm. “You don’t have to be so gentle with me. I’m not going to break.”

Lebron, upon hearing that, looks relieved and worried all at once. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.

“I,” Kyrie starts, and then has to look away briefly for the next part. It’s too embarrassing to say while gazing deeply into Lebron’s soul. “I like it a little rough sometimes…” he trails off, voice getting smaller.

Lebron’s grip on his waist tightens almost painfully, and he captures one of Kyrie’s wrists with his right hand, pressing it into the mattress next to Kyrie’s head. “Are you sure?” He asks, voice strained.

Kyrie nods resolutely, trying to convey with his eyes that he really means it.

There is another long pause, as Lebron appears to make up his mind and abruptly reaches down to pull at Kyrie’s pants roughly. Kyrie internally breathes a sigh of relief for wearing joggers today; he’s pretty sure if his pants had any buttons on them they would be flying through the air right now.

Lebron somehow finds it in himself to take a moment and drink the sight in after he manages to get Kyrie down to his boxers. His eyes rake over Kyrie’s body hungrily, “look at you,” he says hoarsely. “So fucking hot.”

Kyrie tries to move things along and hooks his free arm around Lebron’s neck. “Lebron,” he whines, “hurry up.”

Lebron’s hand trails down to cup his ass. “So eager,” he grunts, pointedly pressing his fingers against Kyrie’s hole through the fabric of his underwear, and Kyrie arches against him. “Fuck, you’re so wet already.”

Kyrie tries to take it all in; Lebron’s hot breath fanning over the side of his neck, his warm hand clasped against the sensitive skin of Kyrie’s inner wrist, his fingers pushing at Kyrie’s wetness behind. He can’t wait any longer, or he’s going to explode. He decides to take matters into his own hands, because Lebron seems to be intent on taking his sweet time.

Kyrie reaches down and takes off his boxers in one quick motion, and he’s about to start prepping himself when Lebron grabs his wrist, forcing him to stop. He looks up, and Lebron is staring at him with an expression that looks both bewildered and aroused. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to finger myself,” Kyrie replies, staring right back. To his surprise, Lebron is the one to get embarrassed first and look away.

“I,” he stammers, “I can do that for you. I want to do that for you.”

Kyrie cracks an amused smile at the side of Lebron’s face. “I know,” he says, “but you were taking too long.”

Lebron turns his head back to look at him. He doesn’t say anything, just uses his grip on Kyrie’s left wrist to bring it up next to his right, which is already pinned above his head. He gathers both of Kyrie’s wrists in one big hand, pressing them down. Kyrie struggles a bit, just to see if he can break free, but Lebron growls and presses back harder– Kyrie can barely budge at all. A bolt of heat runs through him when he realizes that he’s almost completely at Lebron’s mercy.

After Lebron is satisfied that his hold on Kyrie’s wrists is secure, he moves down with his other hand. His touch is no longer hesitant, and he runs his fingers delicately along the tender skin of Kyrie’s inner thigh. Kyrie shudders at the feeling. “Yeah?” Lebron breathes into his ear, and Kyrie hears the unspoken question there.

“Yeah,” he replies shakily.

A few moments later, he feels a cool finger probe at his entrance. He can’t stop the small whimper from escaping him at the initial discomfort, but his natural slick eases the way. Lebron is exceptionally gentle at first, but even he must be getting impatient because soon Kyrie finds himself moaning at the feeling of two of Lebron’s fingers scissoring inside of him generously.

When he looks up, he finds Lebron staring at where his fingers disappear into Kyrie with rapt concentration. Kyrie is about to suggest that Lebron add another, when Lebron shifts, or does _something_ with his hand, and suddenly he’s brushing the spot.

Kyrie’s entire body jolts with the sudden, overwhelming pleasure. “Lebron,” he moans as Lebron changes angles deliberately this time. “I, ah, I need you in me.”

Lebron looks up with a smirk playing at his lips, and clicks his tongue lazily. “Beg me for it.” He says.

Kyrie can feel it minutely when the heat springs up and spreads across his cheeks, onto his ears, and down his neck. He’s still a prideful person at the end of the day, and it’s classic alpha to want to get off on his humiliation. The thing is that Kyrie doesn’t know if that fact is more frustrating or arousing.

He opens his mouth, to say what he doesn’t know, when Lebron chooses this moment to crook his fingers inside of him pointedly. Whatever Kyrie was about to say dies in his throat at the sensation and he instead chokes out a desperate-sounding, “please.”

“Please what?”

“Please,” Kyrie repeats, squeezing his eyes shut, “please fuck me.”

Lebron hums, satisfied. “Now that’s a good omega.”

Kyrie doesn’t open his eyes as he feels Lebron carefully remove his fingers, followed by the sound of clothes rustling. A few seconds later, something hot and hard presses against Kyrie’s entrance. He finally cracks his eyes open, and the sight that meets him is of Lebron braced above him, a vein in his neck throbbing as he tries to control himself.

“I’m ready,” Kyrie says reassuringly. He pauses, and then adds: “alpha.”

That seems to break Lebron’s brain temporarily. He leans in closer. “Say it again,” he grits out.

Kyrie licks his bottom lip, and makes sure to look up at Lebron through his lashes. “Alpha,” he repeats, “alpha, fuck me, please, alpha, I need it–”

Lebron cuts him off with a hoarse growl. Without warning, he thrusts forward, and Kyrie is suddenly being breached. He feels the tight ring of muscle flutter briefly when Lebron’s thick cockhead pushes past it. They both moan, almost in tandem, as Lebron bottoms out; “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He says, teeth clenched.

“And you’re fucking huge,” Kyrie replies, breathing heavily. He lets his body adjust itself, getting used to the intrusion in his body. He squirms a little, trying to get comfortable, and after another moment tells Lebron, “you can move.”

Lebron’s grip on his wrists tightens for an instant as he moves back, almost pulling out entirely, before he thrusts forward again. The force behind the motion drives Kyrie’s whole body further up the bed, sheets bunching messily beneath his back. “Fuck,” Kyrie gasps out, feeling for all the world like he just got the breath fucked out of his lungs.

Lebron repeats the movement, power not easing in the slightest, until the headboard is clanging loudly against the wall with every thrust. When Kyrie tries to pull his wrists up this time, Lebron lets his grip fall away, and Kyrie immediately uses his hands to clutch at the heated skin of Lebron’s shoulders and back. His legs have fallen open in a lewd ‘V’ shape, and the sounds he’s making with each thrust would be embarrassing if he weren’t already too caught up in how good everything feels.

“Lebron,” Kyrie cries after one particularly hard thrust. He lifts his head to look at Lebron, and he can feel the flush on his own face and the unshed tears in his eyes. Lebron gazes down at him, looking like he wants to eat Kyrie alive.

“You’re so fucking hot, baby,” Lebron says huskily, hips maintaining the pace. “Fuck, I can’t believe you’re actually letting me do this. You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this.”

Kyrie moans in response as Lebron’s cock grazes the spot again. A wave of pleasure washes over Kyrie momentarily– but it still isn’t enough. “Can,” Kyrie asks breathlessly, “can I ride you?”

Lebron sucks in a sharp breath at the question. He doesn’t respond verbally, but the ‘yes’ is clear enough as he grabs Kyrie’s thighs to move him, rolling onto his back so that Kyrie can sit on top of him comfortably. His cock stays inside of Kyrie the whole time, shifting in all sorts of interesting ways that make Kyrie’s brain turn to mush. Lebron ends up sitting with his back against the headboard, Kyrie straddling his hips.

When Kyrie finally gets his legs situated underneath himself, he instantly makes to sink lower. Lebron’s cock suddenly hits deep, reaching places it definitely hadn’t been reaching before, and Kyrie has to hold back an almost-sob. He lifts himself, thighs quivering because it all just feels too good, until only the head of Lebron’s dick is inside of him. He lets gravity do the work and drops back down, seeing stars as he feels Lebron’s cock hitting his prostate. He bites his lip as to not let out any embarrassing noises, when he feels Lebron’s hand cupping his the side of his face.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he says. “You’ve been so good for me,” he repeats, “now let me hear you.”

Lebron is looking at him, face clouded with lust. Kyrie breathes out shakily and reaches forward, taking both of Lebron’s wrists lightly to guide his hands so that they end up spread out against Kyrie’s waist. He lifts himself two or three inches up and off again, setting a decent pace as he fucks himself on Lebron’s cock.

It’s embarrassing and humiliating, but he stops trying to hold back the sounds that want to escape his mouth. Small, dazed ‘ah-ah’s at the back of his throat, a sequence of moans that sound straight out of a porno, and occasional pitiful whimpers that only make Lebron’s hands on his waist tense up even more.

Lebron doesn’t stay idle for long, either. He brings one hand up to thumb over Kyrie’s right nipple, the calloused pads of his fingers rough against Kyrie’s sensitive skin, and Kyrie _keens_. “Fuck, this is so much better than anything I imagined,” Lebron groans, eyes raking over the sight in front of him ravenously. “You’re fucking drooling for my cock, you know that?”

Kyrie can’t possibly have a coherent verbal response to that, so he just whines and leans forward, so that his forehead is pressed against Lebron’s. “I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” Lebron continues, hot breath fanning over Kyrie’s cheek. “The only one who gets to see you fall apart on my cock. Taking it like you were made for it.”

Kyrie whimpers at the words, arousal burning low in his stomach. His thighs shake as he lifts himself back up. “None of the other guys get this,” Lebron is still saying, sounding increasingly excited as he speaks, “not Draymond, not Kobe, not Luka.” He stops to bite down on the side of Kyrie’s neck, and Kyrie cries out at the peculiar mix of pain and pleasure. “Nobody but me,” Lebron says against the skin of his neck, voice so deep that it may as well be a growl. “You’re _mine_. You get that?

Kyrie makes a small sound and he pulls back to search Lebron’s face for a moment, before he looks down bashfully. “I’m,” he says unsteadily, almost confusedly. “I’m yours.”

Lebron does growl this time. He tips Kyrie’s chin up with one hand, “look at me when you say it.”

Kyrie’s entire body is hot, too hot, and he feels as if Lebron can see right into him. Everything feels like it’s happening too fast, but he fully grasps the monument of what Lebron is asking him to say. He takes a long breath.

Kyrie doesn’t look away. He says, more firmly now: “I’m yours.”

As the words leave his mouth, he realizes just how much he actually likes the sound of that. Lebron seems to be on the same wavelength, smoothing his hands down along Kyrie’s sides possessively.

“ _My_ omega,” he says, voice deliciously low, and Kyrie can’t help but shiver.

He winds his arms around Lebron’s neck and leans back forward until their chests are pressed together. Kyrie’s hips have stopped moving in the meantime and he’s seated fully in Lebron’s lap, sheathed on his cock. “Lebron,” he says lightly, but is unsure of how to continue. He only knew that he had to say _something_. The moment felt too important not to.

Lebron exhales heavily in front of him. “Why’d you stop?” He asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before he moves his hands to the backs of Kyrie’s thighs. Kyrie’s arms tighten around his neck, not sure what he is about to do, though it soon becomes apparent as Lebron lifts Kyrie, biceps straining, slightly off of his cock, and then lowers him back down.

Kyrie’s mouth drops open when he realizes what is happening– Lebron is _fucking Kyrie on his own cock._ He can’t lie; experiencing firsthand Lebron’s raw, unbridled strength like this is unbelievably hot.

He says as much in between gasps as Lebron drops him down again. “Lebron,” Kyrie pants, moving one hand to clutch at Lebron’s bulging muscles, “you– you’re so hot. How are you so hot?”

Lebron’s broad shoulders shake as he huffs out an amused breath. “I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, barely sounding winded even as he lifts Kyrie up.

Kyrie gets his legs positioned underneath himself when Lebron sets him down again. He tries to match Lebron’s rhythm this time, lifting a bit of his own weight so that their bodies are moving in unison. They set a decent pace like that, and it feels good, really good, a low hum coming to life in Kyrie’s blood.

And then it happens. Lebron thrusts his hips upward at just the right moment as Kyrie is sinking down, at just the right angle– and hits just the right spot. Something electric runs through Kyrie’s body, a broken noise emerging at the back of his throat. He clenches down around Lebron on instinct, and Lebron’s fingers dig into the muscle of Kyrie’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Lebron swears between grit teeth, “you feel so good, baby.”

Kyrie continues to grind his hips down, and the pleasure doesn’t stop coming, wave after wave to the point where it’s almost too much. “You, hah, you, too,” Kyrie somehow manages to reply. He lifts one arm, which feels akin to jelly, to finally lavish some attention on his own largely-neglected dick, but before he can reach it Lebron catches his wrist.

He bites at Kyrie’s neck, and says lowly: “you’re going to come on my knot.”

Kyrie squeezes his eyes shut in frustration, but what makes it worse is that Lebron’s denial just makes Kyrie even harder. “Lebron,” he says, trying to pitch his voice as vulnerable as possible. When he opens his eyes again, there is a bit of moisture clinging to his eyelashes and the corners of his eyes. “I want to come,” he says helplessly, hips twitching erratically, “please, I need to come.” He clenches around Lebron’s cock on purpose as he moves upward again, trying to make it as good for Lebron as possible.

He sees the precise moment Lebron’s pupils dilate, almost swallowing his irises whole. “Kyrie,” he says gruffly, slowly. “Can you be good for me and wait for my knot?”

Kyrie really, really wants to scream ‘no.’ He’s waited long enough, already– but something about the way Lebron is looking at him almost pleadingly makes him tamp down on the urge to just stand up, walk away, and go jerk off in the bathroom. Instead, he blows out a shaky breath, and buries his face in the junction between Lebron’s neck and shoulder. “Okay,” he says against the skin there, words slightly muffled.

Lebron circles around his lower back gently. “Good boy,” he murmurs. Kyrie makes a small noise back and bites down on Lebron’s neck petulantly, a silent ‘hurry up.’ Lebron is careful as he flips them over so that Kyrie is on his back again, Lebron hovering over him.

Lebron pushes one of Kyrie’s legs back with a hand on his ankle. “Hold yourself open for me,” he says. Kyrie looks at him, chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, but ultimately his need for Lebron to fuck him wins out over the vestiges of his pride and dignity.

“Bron,” Kyrie breathes. He reaches out to hook his hands on the backs of his knees, and– okay, he’s not gone enough yet that he can look Lebron in the eyes while doing this. He moves his gaze to watch the rise and fall of Lebron’s chest instead.

Lebron leans closer until each exhale fans across the side of Kyrie’s face. “I got you,” he says softly into Kyrie’s ear.

And he finally starts to move his hips again. Compared to the heated, frenzied pace they had been going at earlier, it’s much slower this time– but also much more intense. What Lebron lacks in speed he makes up for in depth, and every time he thrusts forward Kyrie cries out. Lebron must be some kind of sex god or deity, Kyrie thinks hysterically, because the way that he’s managing to hit Kyrie’s spot dead-on every single time is actually unhuman.

Kyrie’s hands start to slip. He can hardly feel his limbs anymore at this point, pleasure numbing his mind and body. It only gets worse when Lebron’s movements get faster, hips stuttering, and Kyrie realizes through the haze of it all that Lebron must be getting close to coming, too.

“Lebron,” Kyrie says, and vaguely registers that he sounds on the verge of tears. “I need to come, please, I can’t take it anymore,” he rambles, “please, please, alpha, give it to me, give me your knot, I want it–”

“Kyrie,” Lebron grunts back, “fuck, baby, I’m gonna knot you so good,” he says, “fill you up with my cum till you’re dripping with it.” He breathes in sharply, “then you’ll be mine, yeah? _Mine._ ” His hips speed up even more.

“I,” Kyrie stammers, looking into Lebron’s eyes, “I’ve always been yours.”

Lebron groans. “Fuck,” he rasps, “Ky, I– I’m gonna come.”

Kyrie doesn’t say anything, just hooks his arms around Lebron’s back and spreads his legs wider. Lebron gives four more sharp, forceful, driving thrusts– and then something hot, almost scorching spills against Kyrie’s walls. Lebron’s hips are flush against his through it, and he has to whimper at the feeling of Lebron’s cum inside of him.

Kyrie stays still as he waits for Lebron to stop coming. It takes a couple seconds before Lebron’s hips come to a halt, and Kyrie feels it when some cum leaks out of his hole, around Lebron’s cock. That is, until something incredibly hot, and solid, begins to grow inside of him.

It’s Lebron’s knot, he realizes with a jolt. It expands to the point of almost being painful, Kyrie gasping and clutching at Lebron’s back. “You feel that?” Lebron says into his ear, “God, you’ve been so good, Kyrie.” He bites lightly at Kyrie’s earlobe, and commands:

“Now come for me.”

And Kyrie comes. Harder than he ever has, probably. It’s not so much the physical stimulation but rather the knowledge that it’s Lebron’s knot inside of him, it’s Lebron’s voice in his ear, it’s Lebron who is telling Kyrie to come for him. He’s pretty sure he legitimately blacks out for two or three seconds, though he can hear himself making a small, pitiful noise in his throat. It’s better than anything he’s ever felt in his life, all the build-up and accumulation of pleasure ever since Lebron first entered him finally having somewhere to be released.

When Kyrie regains his cognitive functions, he finds himself face to face with Lebron, who is watching him intently. Kyrie tries to get his panting under control, suddenly becoming acutely aware of his own cum splattered all over his and Lebron’s abdomens. Some of it nearly reaches his chin; just how hard exactly did he come?

Lebron breathes out heavily above him. “Fuck,” he says, “that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

It takes Kyrie a moment to find his bearings and the ability to speak again. “Lebron,” he says, but that’s all he manages to get out before Lebron’s face creases with concern and he reaches out to hold Kyrie’s jaw gently. He swipes his thumb across Kyrie’s cheek, which comes away wet. “Why are you crying, baby?” He asks, looking alarmed.

Kyrie blinks, and, oh, he hadn’t even realized that the tears had begun leaking out of his eyes. “I’m,” he says, and sniffles. “I’m just happy.”

Lebron’s entire expression softens at that. “I’m happy, too,” he replies. He rearranges them carefully so that they are lying on their sides, Kyrie in front and Lebron spooning him from behind. Lebron moves deliberately, but the action still makes Kyrie whimper at the overstimulation.

Lebron wraps his arm firmly around Kyrie’s waist, burying his face in the crook of Kyrie’s neck and nipping at the skin there. Kyrie reaches back to touch one hand to the side of Lebron’s face, turning his head so that their lips can meet. They exchange a kiss, this one more slow and sweet. Lebron swipes his tongue through Kyrie’s mouth languidly, and when they pull back they don’t stray far from one another, foreheads pressed together and breathing in the same air.

“I wish we could stay in this moment forever,” Kyrie says.

Lebron's arms tighten around him. “I’m still not convinced this is entirely real,” he says. “It seems too good to be true.”

Kyrie blows out a breath through his nose. He clenches around Lebron’s knot pointedly, “feels plenty real to me.”

“Christ,” Lebron groans. His fingers dig into Kyrie’s waist. “You know,” he says, “I’ve…I’ve never actually knotted anybody before.”

Kyrie pulls back. He looks at Lebron, shocked, “you’re a virgin??”

Lebron’s eyes widen. “No!” He replies in mild panic. “That’s not what I said. I just– I’ve never felt the need to go all the way like that with anyone.” He leans in again, “until you, I mean.”

It’s really sappy, going back to that whole ‘over the top’ thing, but a part of Kyrie’s heart still melts a little. Lebron doesn’t wait for him to reply before venturing on. “Speaking of,” he continues, uncharacteristically hesitant. He doesn’t look away, however. “Does this mean we're…we're together, now?”

Kyrie blinks at him. He opens his mouth slowly– is this guy seriously asking him that right now? “I just let you come inside me and then knot me within an inch of my life,” he says, “do you _think_ we’re together now?”

Lebron appears dumbfounded for a moment. “Yeah,” he replies thoughtfully, “yeah, I guess so.” He moves his head down to brush his lips over the back of Kyrie’s neck lightly, where his scent glands are located. “I wish I could mark you right now. But we should take it slow, yeah?”

Kyrie shivers at the sensation. “Sure,” he replies jokingly, “still gotta decide whether I like being your omega or not.”

“Mm, my omega,” Lebron repeats. “I like the sound of that.” He nibbles at Kyrie’s neck, not hard enough to break skin, but as if he can’t help himself.

Kyrie hums in response. He lets his eyes close, and suddenly realizes just how tired he is. For all he knows, him and Lebron could have been going at it for hours– he had lost track of the concept of time somewhere in the middle. Add that on top of one of the most intense experiences of Kyrie’s life, and he’s spent.

“Bron,” he says, sleep seeping into his voice. “I’m tired…”

Lebron kisses the side of his neck. “I really wore you out, didn’t I?” He replies. “Get some rest,” Kyrie hears Lebron say as he starts to drift off, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And with that, Kyrie falls asleep.

*

It’s nearly noon by the time Kyrie finally opens his eyes. Lebron tells him as much with an amused smile, chest warm and solid beneath Kyrie’s head.

“We can still catch the other guys at lunch if we get up soon,” Lebron says.

Kyrie tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes. When his vision clears again, he sees Lebron watching him like he’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. Kyrie mock-scowls up at him, then buries his face in Lebron’s spectacular pecs.

“Can we shower,” Kyrie says, muffled.

His limbs are exceptionally relaxed, still basking in the afterglow, as Lebron rolls them over and lifts Kyrie with two hands on the backs of his thighs. Kyrie wraps his legs around Lebron’s waist obligingly, and only now realizes that Lebron’s cock is still inside of him. He blows out a heavy breath at the feeling, but he knows that it’s the only thing keeping Lebron’s cum from leaking out of him and all over the carpet.

They wash themselves thoroughly in the shower. Lebron painstakingly cleans his cum out of Kyrie with his fingers, Kyrie clutching at Lebron’s shoulders, which leads to them having another round against the shower wall. Kind of counterproductive, but, well.

By the time they finally step out and dry themselves off, Kyrie’s skin feels tender and oversensitive in a good way. They agree to meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes and Kyrie goes back to his own room to get a fresh change of clothes, because he’s not about to add to the shit he’s going to get from the guys later by showing up in the same clothes as last night– or even worse, Lebron’s clothes.

The restaurant’s not too far away from the hotel, so they walk there. They talk and laugh the whole way but keep a respectable distance, both hyperaware of any paparazzi lurking nearby. The photos will probably still end up on Twitter along with a ton of gossip and speculation, but Kyrie chooses not to think about that for now.

When they arrive, the stewardess takes one look at them and leads them through a maze of tables to one of the private box rooms at the back. The sound of laughter, conversation, and silverware clinking spills through the door. Kyrie takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for what’s about to come.

“You ready for this?” He asks Lebron.

“As I’ll ever be,” Lebron replies dryly, and pushes the door open.

For such a nice restaurant, the door hinges are really creaky. Every head in the room turns toward them at the noise and Kyrie tries not to look like a deer in the headlights.

He lifts one arm in an awkward wave and smiles sheepishly. “What’s up, guys?”

Stephen is the first to raise his eyebrows. “Well, well, well,” he says airily. “Look who decided to join us.”

KD leans forward in faux curiosity. “What have you guys been up to?”

“Bible study,” Lebron says from behind Kyrie without missing a beat, and the corner of Kyrie’s mouth spasms. “Y’all should’ve joined us.”

Russell looks at them, unimpressed. “I think I speak for everyone when I say that we’re good.”

“I don’t know,” Draymond, meanwhile, replies thoughtfully. “That sounds like it could be kind of hot–”

“ _Anyways_ ,” Kyrie interrupts loudly as he steps forward. “What can a guy do to get some food around here? I’m starving!”

Stephen snorts. “Yeah, I bet you are,” he says, but scoots over to make space for Kyrie next to him at the table. Kyrie makes a face at him and plops down in the seat. He snags a French fry from Stephen’s plate as the conversation around them returns somewhat to normal.

Stephen nudges his plate towards Kyrie, looking amused. “So,” he starts, and Kyrie groans internally. “How was your night?”

Kyrie stares intently down at the spaghetti somebody had placed in front of him. “It was fine,” he mutters, picking up a fork.

He doesn’t have to turn his head to know what look Stephen is giving him. “Oh, come on,” Stephen says, leaning in before promptly making an exaggerated gagging noise. “Jesus, you _reek_ of him. What did you guys do?”

Kyrie feels his ears turning pink. He purses his lips and turns to face Stephen stiffly. “We,” he says, “we talked.”

Stephen stares at him. “And?”

Kyrie puffs his cheeks out and glares at Stephen for making him say this out loud. “And we, we fucked, okay?” He hisses quietly, “then he knotted me. Now we’re together. The end.”

Stephen’s eyes bulge out. “Wait, he what!?”

“He knotted me.” Kyrie repeats.

“Wow,” Stephen says after a moment, blinking slowly. He tilts his head in wonder, “how did it feel?”

Kyrie blows out a long breath. “It was amazing,” he replies. He pauses, and then adds, “I’ve never come that hard in my life.”

Stephen’s face immediately scrunches up. “Okay, TMI,” he says. “But more importantly. You guys got your shit together?”

Kyrie sneaks a glance at the other end of the table where Lebron is sitting, only to find that Lebron is already looking in his direction with a dopey smile on his face. Kyrie smiles back equally dumbly. “Yeah,” he tells Stephen.

“God, you guys are gonna be absolutely sickening, aren’t you?” Stephen remarks, and when Kyrie looks back at him, he has a fond smile hanging at the corners of his lips. “I’m happy for you guys.”

Kyrie grins. “Thanks, Steph, it means a lot,” he replies.

They both duck their heads in unison to focus on the food, letting the hum of other conversations in the room wash over them. Kyrie is the one to break the silence again after several moments, as he dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “Say,” he starts, “now that my problem has been solved– are you and Klay planning to get together anytime in this century?”

He watches in fascination as Stephen’s cheeks quickly turn pink. “We’re taking it slow, okay?” Stephen says, a touch defensive.

“There’s slow, and then there’s _endless_.” Kyrie retorts, though he reaches out to ruffle Stephen’s hair so that he knows he’s just messing around. Stephen rolls his eyes good-naturedly at him. Before he can say anything, though, the sound of a glass being clinked echoes throughout the room.

“Ahem,” Kyrie turns to see Dwyane standing next to an entertained-looking Lebron, a glass in one hand and a spoon in the other. “If I could get everyone’s attention, please.”

Dwyane waits patiently for everybody to look at him, and Kyrie watches on in interest. “I’d just like to give a quick toast,” Dwyane announces, “to my best bros, Lebron and Kyrie,” he gestures with his cup at them respectively, “for getting their shit together.”

Kyrie raises his eyebrows; what is it with that phrase, ‘get their shit together’? Kyrie has always had his shit together. Dwyane, in the meanwhile, is raising his mimosa to the ceiling. “To Lebron and Kyrie getting their shit together!” He exclaims.

Everyone goes along with it. They raise their glasses as well and repeat after Dwyane, though they all end up speaking at different speeds and the result is an unintelligible mess of voices. It’s the thought that counts, Kyrie supposes.

Kyrie smiles and nods politely through it all and resists the urge to laugh. When the last ‘together’ is uttered, he expects that to be the end of it, but Dwyane doesn’t sit down. Instead, he looks between Lebron and Kyrie, and beams. “Now kiss!” He declares.

Kyrie does laugh this time. “You know this isn’t a wedding, right?” He asks.

“Psh,” Dwyane says, “come on, I’ve been waiting for this to happen for four years.” He makes a pitiful face at Kyrie, “just let me have this.”

Kyrie can’t help but smile, shaking his head even as he stands up. He takes the few steps between his seat and Lebron’s, setting one hand on Lebron’s shoulder and leaning down to smack a loud kiss against Lebron’s cheek. He looks back up at Dwyane. “You happy now?”

Dwyane looks unconvinced, arms crossed dubitably. “On the mouth would’ve been better,” he says, “but fine. I’ll take it.”

Kyrie smiles in exasperation and is about to reply, but before any words can leave his mouth Lebron is touching one hand to the side of his face and pulling him back down. Startled at the sudden movement, Kyrie’s mouth falls open slightly, leaving the perfect opening for Lebron to stick his tongue in his mouth.

Some of the leftover arousal from earlier in the shower immediately sparks back to life low in Kyrie’s stomach. Lebron moves his hand to the back of Kyrie’s neck and tightens his grip, and Kyrie’s knees go weak. He goes sprawling across Lebron’s lap, Lebron’s big hand braced on his lower back.

“Oh, shit,” Kyrie hears someone say in the distance. In the meantime, Lebron has moved on to kissing him sweetly but no less intensely, one hand gently framing Kyrie’s chin.

“Seriously,” Russell says across from them, “right in front of my salad?”

It’s the type of statement that would normally make Kyrie laugh, if he weren’t so focused on the way Lebron has shifted his attention to the column of Kyrie’s neck. He sucks at a sensitive spot on the underside of Kyrie’s jaw, and Kyrie gasps at the feeling.

“Woah…” a dazed voice that sounds like Draymond’s says somewhere to their left.

“Wait, what the fuck,” comes Dwyane’s mildly panicked voice. “This isn’t what I wanted. This isn’t what I wanted at all.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Stephen groans, “get a fucking room, would you.”

Kyrie tips his head back slightly to give them an unimpressed look. “Hey,” he says as Lebron carries on, apparently oblivious to the world around them, “you guys asked for this.”

Stephen casts a despairing look back at him. “No,” he replies, “we really didn’t.”

Kyrie just shrugs at him, when Lebron abruptly bites down on Kyrie’s neck sharply. “Why aren’t you paying attention to me,” he says sulkily. Kyrie turns back to him, the corners of his mouth lifting into a fond smile. Lebron can be pretty cute sometimes.

He nudges Lebron’s face upwards until he can lean forward and press their foreheads together. “Bron,” he says, “have I ever told you that you’re cute.”

Lebron huffs out an amused breath. “Can’t say I hear that one every day,” he replies. He scrapes his stubble against the side of Kyrie’s face playfully, and Kyrie giggles at the prickly feeling.

The moment is broken by Russell’s incessant muttering nearby, which has progressively been growing louder. “Unbelievable,” Russell is saying to himself, “it’s like we’re not even here. This isn’t a hotel room, you know. This is a public space where I’m trying to eat my food in peace–”

Kyrie and Lebron both turn their heads to watch him, when Stephen decides to pitch in as well. “Boooooooo,” he jeers, hand cupped around his mouth, and gestures not so subtly to try and get the others to do the same. A lot of people do join in, though most of them look like they are trying incredibly hard not to laugh.

Kyrie just leans back in. He presses his lips to Lebron’s, smiling against his mouth.

(“Booo– wait, what are they doing? I– holy fuck, no, somebody stop them! Oh my God Lebron get your hand off of Kyrie’s–”)

*

Kyrie unfolds, refolds, unfolds, then refolds the napkin on his plate over and over again. Partly due to anticipation and excitement, partly due to suspicion.

“Do we really have to sit outside?” He asks, eyes scanning the potted plants dotting the perimeter of the restaurant.

“Oh, come on,” Stephen replies. “I know you’re used to staying indoors in Boston’s shitty weather, but we’re in Cali, baby.” He gestures to the sky, which is admittedly picturesque, bright blue and not a cloud in sight.

“I’m just saying, man,” Kyrie narrows his eyes– is that the glint of a camera lens he sees in the distance? “The paps are fucking everywhere recently. We’re gonna end up on First Take tomorrow morning with a headline about a romantic double date or something.”

“But,” Klay says, blinking at him, “this _is_ a double date.”

Kyrie huffs at him. “That’s not the point, Klay.”

Klay only looks more confused. “What’s the point?”

Kyrie opens his mouth to reply, when he suddenly feels a large hand cover his eyes, a familiar warmth against his face. “Guess who?” A deep voice says.

Kyrie whips his head around to look up at Lebron. “Bron!” He exclaims, and even he can sense how quickly his own face just lit up.

Lebron pats his head as he pulls the chair next to Kyrie’s out. He exchanges greetings with Stephen and Klay, leaning across the table to do their handshakes. When Lebron finally settles back into his seat, Kyrie knocks his ankle lightly underneath the table with his own to get his attention.

Lebron looks over at him and Kyrie smiles softly, one meant for just the two of them.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> comments appreciated! :D


End file.
